


Challenge October

by MagicaDraconia16



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminal, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Dialogue-Only, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Evil Plans, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Flufftober 2019, Humor, Inktober 2019, Jail, M/M, Mild Illness, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Old Age, Old Friends, Old Married Couple, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Public hanging, Spells & Enchantments, Whump, Whumptober 2019, dragon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-11-15 08:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20862875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicaDraconia16/pseuds/MagicaDraconia16
Summary: A series of short, non-connected stories, heavily coated in whump and fluff, for that special month of October.





	1. Shaky Hands│Dancing│Ring

**Author's Note:**

> Me: As I've not done this type of challenge before, I'll pace myself and won't try doing every day. 
> 
> Also me: All these prompt lists sound brilliant, so let's combine three of them at once! 
> 
> Chapter count is not set in stone. It's how many ideas I have; we'll just have to see whether I actually manage all of them. It took me two days to do the first one, which probably indicates how successful I'm likely to be... 
> 
> Chapter titles are Whump/Fluff/Ink prompts. (And yes, I'm aware Ink is supposed to be drawings, but I can't draw to save my life, so words will have to do)

Percival Graves stood at the entrance to the ballroom, his arms folded across his chest, sceptically watching the hustle and bustle going on in front of him. Newt Scamander stood beside him, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, looking a lot more pleased.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” he asked, apparently ignoring the slight scowl on Percival’s face.

Percival grunted. “It’s certainly better than the last one,” he admitted, finally.

Giving out a laugh that caused almost every head in the room to swivel their way, Newt smacked him lightly on the arm. “Oh, come on,” he said. “I thought Queenie’s granddaughter did a lovely job!”

“Yes, if you’re a socialite from a hundred and fifty years ago having her first Season,” Percival grumbled.

Shaking his head, Newt tucked his arm through Percival’s and tugged him from the doorway out into the foyer of the building. “I thought you said at the time that the décor didn’t matter?” he teased.

“That’s true,” conceded Percival, tipping his head in agreement, “but it was still an eyesore.”

“You know,” another voice interrupted before Newt could respond, “it’s bad luck to see the groom before the wedding.”

“Tina!” Newt exclaimed, and spun around to grin at their friend, inadvertently dragging Percival with him. He wiggled his arm free from Percival’s, then draw Tina into an enthusiastic hug. “You made it!”

Tina laughed and patted Newt’s back. “Of course I made it,” she said as Newt finally let her go. “As if I’d miss this one in particular!”

Percival inclined his head in greeting. “Miss Goldstein,” he said. “I don’t think seeing the groom before the wedding makes much difference after the first go-round.”

“It’s Mrs Abernathy now, _sir_, as you very well know,” Tina said, raising an eyebrow pointedly at Percival. Then she smiled at them both. “What number does this make now, twenty seven?”

“Twenty nine,” Newt corrected.

“Thirty, if we’re counting the ceremony in Denmark,” Percival pointed out.

Tina shook her head. “You guys are crazy,” she said, fondly. “Are you planning on having a new wedding _every_ time gay marriage is legalised somewhere?”

“Of course!” said Newt, as if there could be any other answer. “We have to make sure we’re considered legal _everywhere_.”

Percival shook his head as Tina opened her mouth. “Don’t bother,” he advised. “I made the same argument when Newt suggested the third wedding.”

“Well, _I_ think it’s very sweet,” said yet another new voice. Glancing up towards the door, Percival squinted until the silhouettes resolved themselves into Queenie and Jacob Kowalski. Newt made a delighted sound and hurried across to them. The elderly No-Maj had just celebrated his 111th birthday, and it was only because of a little judicious help from Queenie that he was able to attend this event at all. Percival was fairly certain that it wouldn’t be much longer before nothing would help him anymore, although he was exceedingly careful to avoid saying this to Newt, and even more careful not to think it around Queenie herself.

“You should see it, it looks _magnificent_,” Newt was saying loudly, as he slowly drew both Jacob and Queenie towards the ballroom.

Tina folded her arms as she watched the slow progress her sister’s husband was making. “I’m glad he’s finally been able to attend a wedding,” she said absently to Percival. “Sure, we’ve shown him pictures and videos, but they don’t really convey the _experience_.”

“Newt was particularly excited when he learnt that New York had finally legalised equal marriage,” Percival agreed. “He was bitterly disappointed that Jacob couldn’t make the first one, although of course he understood the circumstances.” A blur of movement caught his eye. “Ah, looks like they’re ready for us,” he said, and crooked his arm towards Tina. “Shall we?”

Tina slid her arm through his and pretended to bat her eyelashes at him. “Why, Mr Graves, whatever will our husbands think?”

Percival snorted. “That we’re dang lucky to have them,” he admitted, and halted in the ballroom doorway. The decorators had finished and all but two had retreated out of another exit. The remaining two, who were apparently staying just in case their décor suffered some mishap, were stood at parade rest along the back wall.

Newt, Jacob and Queenie were at the front of the hall, in front of the white trellis arch that was woven with vines and roses. Jacob, by benefit of his advanced age and shaky equilibrium, was seated on a chair beside Newt. Queenie was hovering around him, obviously concerned that the excitement would be too much for him.

Percival was slightly concerned, as he slowly walked along the makeshift aisle towards Newt, that the excitement might be too much for _him_. He never got tired of the feeling that he was now able – now _allowed_ – to claim Newt as his. Granted, they hadn’t had as much persecution in the magical world as the No-Majs had struggled with, but with the new legislation, they didn’t have to worry about shooting off _Oblivates_ if they were accidentally too affectionate in front of No-Majs.

When he reached Newt, the other man smiled and held out a hand to him. Percival took it, feeling the slight shakiness to it. Or perhaps that was him with shaking hands. Either way, it didn’t matter. He smiled back at Newt, and they turned to face the Officiant.

* * *

Newt hummed softly into Percival’s ear as they slowly swayed together. He had his left hand curled up over Percival’s shoulder so that they could both see the glint of the ring that Percival had recently replaced on his finger. They had decided to change the designs of their rings every fifth wedding, which meant that Newt needed to decide what he wanted changing next, ready for their next wedding wherever marriage equality was newly granted.

He was aware of Percival’s thoughts on getting married each time it was legalised somewhere else, but he liked the symbolism of it; the ability to firmly state in public that he was allowed to claim this man, and to be claimed in return.

He was tempted to bite down on Percival’s neck, to make it a physical, _visible_, claim, but he rather thought that kind of action, coming from what appeared to be a man in his late seventies, might scare the nice No-Majs who’d decorated the ballroom and were currently trying to hide their soppy expressions when they gazed on the newly married couple.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Percival murmured, his voice fond and amused.

“Just thinking we can’t do anything that would scare the No-Majs,” Newt replied.

Percival leant back enough to see Newt’s face clearly, one eyebrow raised. “Were you _planning_ on doing something that would scare the No-Majs?” he asked.

Newt smirked at him. “I was certainly planning on something that would _scandalise_ the No-Majs,” he said. “Possibly wizarding folk, too.”

“I guess it’s a good thing we’re going, then!” Queenie’s voice said from behind them. Turning to face her, they found Queenie and Tina both gripping tightly to Jacob’s arms, ensuring he remained upright. The elderly man had clearly reached the end of whatever stamina Queenie had managed to give him; his eyes were beginning to droop closed. “Jacob’s ready for a nap,” Queenie continued. “Aren’t you, sweetie?”

“Huh?” Jacob’s eyes snapped open, and his head jerked as the sound of his name woke him up. It took several minutes, but his gaze finally focused on Percival and Newt. “H-hey, g-guys,” he managed, his voice weak and thready. “G-glad to se-see y-you.”

“It was _very_ good to see you again, Jacob,” Newt said, reaching out to gently hug his friend for what was most likely going to be the last time. “We’re so glad you could make this one.”

“It was a pleasure, Mr Kowalski,” Percival added, patting Jacob on the shoulder. “You take care, now.”

“I’ll write,” promised Tina, as Jacob’s eyes began to droop closed again and his head began to nod. “It was a lovely wedding, though I wouldn’t expect anything less from you both by now.”

Percival smiled at her. “It was good to see you, Tina,” he said. “Give my regards to Abernathy.”

They both turned to watch the trio make their slow way out of the ballroom. The decorators had begun to dismantle the decorations at the far end of the room, obviously trying to give them all some privacy.

“So,” Percival said, eventually, once the Kowalskis and Tina had gone. “Mr Scamander-Graves. Shall we go somewhere that doesn’t have anyone to scandalise?”

Newt shivered at hearing that name yet again. He didn’t think he’d _ever_ get enough of it. “Oh, _yes_,” he said, eagerly, wrapping his arms back around Percival’s shoulders.

And with a quiet _pop_, they Disapparated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the Wiki page on same-sex marriage, in 1989, Denmark was the first to recognise a legal relationship between a same-sex couple, although it wasn't a law at the time. The Netherlands was the first to legally recognise a same-sex marriage through law, in 2001. The state of New York granted marriage equality in 2011.


	2. 3 - Delirium│Blanket│Bait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *winces* late again. And not even as long as the previous one, so I don't have that as an excuse, either...

_Ah . . . ah! . . . ACHOOOO!!!_

“Bless you, Tina.”

“Ugh, zank you.” Tina Goldstein sniffled miserably, then blew her nose loudly. “I hade dis. Dis is _your_ fauld, Newd Scamander!”

Newt tried to hide his smile, but failed, despite a heroic effort. “Well, if I’m remembering correctly,” he said, adding another blanket to the pile that was burying Tina, “it was _your_ idea to leave yourself out there in the freezing cold as bait for that criminal.”

“_I_ didn’b know id was going do znow,” Tina protested, although the effort of trying to raise her voice indignantly doubled her over in a harsh coughing fit. Newt gently patted her back until she shrugged him off and panted for breath.

“You could have chosen a better outfit for it,” said Newt, gently.

Tina scowled at him. “Dhe perp is murbering _streed walkers_,” she said. “I can’b predenb I’m a streed walker as baid if I’m cobered in layers!”

“Then perhaps you should have cast a Warming Charm!” Newt retorted, much less gently. Who knew it was possible for Tina to get even _more_ argumentative when she was sick?

Tina guiltily looked away and gave another hard sniff. “I forgob,” she said. “I waz going do casd one, dhen dhe junior Auror on dudy dhoughd dhey zaw him…”

“And you got distracted,” Newt finished. Tina nodded, her eyes fixed on the far corner of the room. Newt sighed and sat down on the bed beside her, patting her shoulder again. “Well, things happen,” he said. “So I’m afraid you’ll just have to—”

“Hey, Newd?” Tina interrupted. Her voice had gone soft and vaguely dreamy, and New frowned. “When did you geb a pink niffler?”

_What? A _pink_ niffler?! _Newt spun round to look at the corner. There was nothing there. He turned back to Tina and frowned harder. _Oh . . . oh, dear_. Tina’s cold had obviously worsened into an actual fever now; her eyes were bright but cloudy, and her cheekbones were blazing a bright red that contrasted horribly with the paleness of the rest of her skin. “Oh, Tina,” he sighed.

Tina just laughed in response, her eyes following whatever her delirium was showing her. “How’d you deach ‘im to dance, Newd?” she asked in between chortles.

Shaking his head, Newt didn’t bother replying to that. Instead, he waved his hand in a gesture he’d had to become far too familiar with, whenever he himself was sick enough that he couldn’t reliably use his wand in case the wrong spell came out. It took a few minutes, but eventually a small vial of Pepper-Up Potion floated into the bedroom, followed by a larger vial of a Fever Reducer.

It took a bit of coaxing to get Tina to swallow them both, distracted as she was watching whatever the ‘niffler’ was doing. Once she’d swallowed the last drop of potion, she smacked her lips together. “Dasdes funny,” was her opinion, then she yawned until Newt was worried she was going to accidentally break her own jawbone. “Dired now,” she informed him, pouting when she couldn’t stop another yawn.

“Well, you just go to sleep, then,” Newt said, and helped her to lie down. He drew the pile of blankets higher and gave the whole thing a gentle pat. “I’m sure you’ll feel a lot better when you wake up.”

The only response was a snore loud enough to rattle the windows.


	3. 5 - Gunpoint│Wet│Build

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't think I'm happy with the ending here, but I'll live with it. 
> 
> Set in 1845. Info on the NYPD is from here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_the_New_York_City_Police_Department  
(Good old Wiki, what would we do without it?) 
> 
> The Turtle Mountains are a real place in North Dakota. 
> 
> Forest craft has been handwaved, so is likely not in the least bit accurate. 
> 
> Also, internet cookies to whoever spots the song reference! ;)

The carriage jolted as it ran over a section of road with deeper ruts than most. The occupants, one lady and three gentlemen, paid this no mind. They had already been travelling for several days and had become accustomed to the continuous movement of the vehicle.

The lady and a man who was presumably her husband sat on one side of the carriage, their heads together as they conversed in a hushed tone. The other two passengers sat on opposite ends of the other seat, both gazing idly out of the windows, watching the landscape they’d just passed through retreat further into the distance.

The tranquility was abruptly torn asunder by the sharp _crack_ of a pistol shot. The passengers all let out varying exclamations of alarm as the carriage slewed wildly sideways before coming to a jerking halt, the horses that had been pulling it giving loud neighs and snorts.

“Stand and deliver!” a male voice called from somewhere outside the carriage. “Your money, or your life!”

“Oh, my!” the lady gasped, and clutched at the fine necklace she wore. “A highwayman!” Rather than appearing frightened, instead she seemed pleased, as though this would be a thrilling story to share with her friends when she reached home.

Her husband seemed equally fearless, scowling fiercely out of the window, although it was impossible to see the highwayman from where he was sitting. “Blasted nuisance,” he grumbled. “This road was supposed to be clear of the blighters. Coachman should have horsewhipped him already!”

The other two passengers exchanged quick glances. _They_, at least, were not unaware of the danger, though neither of them was rich nor did they have anything of value that might pacify the robber.

One of the carriage doors abruptly swung open, and a man with a bandanna wrapped around the lower half of his face gestured at them with a pistol. “If you’d be so kind as to disembark from the carriage,” he said to them all. It was clearly not a request.

The solo passenger closest to the door, a dark-haired man with grey at his temples, calmly rose and exited the carriage, then turned back to offer a helping hand to the lady. Before she could take it, however, her husband was barging past her and through the door, knocking the outstretched hand away. He gave a smug grin which was abruptly wiped off his face when the highwayman stuck the pistol in his face.

“Stand over there,” he ordered. “We’ll be searching the carriage for your valuables; you might as well tell us right now where they are.”

“Hmpf.” The lady, who had managed to disembark from the carriage on her own, stalked past the highwayman with her nose in the air. “As if I’d give up my jewels to _you_.”

The other solo passenger, a young man with curly red hair, paused in the carriage doorway, exchanging another look with the dark-haired man still standing beside the open door.

“Well, it’s either him, or me,” another masked man growled from where his horse was standing in front of the carriage. “So better decide quick. Doesn’t matter to us if it comes to us cold or hot.”

Both solo passengers winced, even as the lady puffed up with even more indignation and opened her mouth. Her husband, however, apparently had the good sense to recognise a threat when he heard one and clapped a hand over her mouth. “In the brown felt bag, on top of the stage,” he said, nodding his head to indicate whereabouts on the carriage he meant.

“You two, over there,” the second robber said, gruffly, and waved his pistol in the vague direction of the passengers. Keeping a wary eye on the weapon, they hastily moved towards where the other couple was still standing.

It took the second highwayman no more than three minutes to find the bag with the couple’s jewellery in it, and it seemed the haul was large enough that they didn’t even bother to demand anything else. The ‘toll’ was enough for all of them.

The outlaw scurried over to his own horse and mounted, whilst the coachman hastily gathered up the reins, eager to start moving again towards safety. The husband of the couple was plainly equally relieved to have gotten off so lightly, as his ascent into the carriage was almost unseemly quick. He didn’t even wait to see if his wife required assistance.

The lady, though, had clearly gotten over the ‘thrill’ of the tale she’d have to tell, and she paused on the step of the carriage. Before any of the men around her realised what she intended, she had leant forward and snapped up the coachman’s whip, half-turning to sending it snaking through the air towards the highwaymen’s horses with alarming skill.

The scene descended into chaos, as the struck horse whinnied in pain and kicked out, almost unseating its rider; the other highwayman yelled in outrage and fired his pistol at the carriage; the coachman made a brief noise of surprise and slumped in his seat; and the carriage horses took fright again, reared, and bolted, leaving the lady clinging desperately to the carriage door frame to stay upright and on the fast-moving vehicle.

The two remaining passengers, still on the ground, watched as the carriage disappeared in one direction and the two highwaymen disappeared towards the trees in the other direction.

They exchanged despairing glances as the sky, which had been getting steadily darker for the past few minutes, abruptly clouded over completely and it began to rain.

* * *

“Well,” the dark-haired man said, “we’d better see if we can find some shelter, and then continue on to New York tomorrow.” His red-headed companion nodded, but remained silent, nervously chewing on his lower lip. “Come on, let’s at least get under those trees.”

They trekked across the ground in silence. It was a relief to finally reach the trees, as the rain was now coming down hard enough to turn the earth to mud. It was unfortunate that they were halfway through the fall, so raindrops still managed to drip down onto them, but any shelter was better than none.

“My name is Percival Graves,” the dark-haired man said, finally.

The other man jumped, then hastily pulled himself together. “Oh! Uh, Newt Scamander,” he offered in return, barely making eye contact with Percival. Percival was not surprised; Newt was an unfortunate name to have been given.

Turning, he eyed the trees surrounding them. As a boy in North Dakota, he had lived on an estate on the edges of a forest, nestled up to the foothills of the Turtle Mountains, so he was aware of the forest craft that could be used to build a makeshift shelter. Unfortunately, the knife that he’d usually use for something like that was still tucked safely away in his luggage. The luggage that was still strapped to the roof of a runaway stagecoach.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a knife on you, would you?” he asked Newt, already expecting to hear the man’s denial.

To his surprise, however, Newt suddenly perked up in interest. “I don’t have a knife, but I can help put together a shelter,” he said, eagerly, before abruptly flinching and blushing and shrinking into himself again. “I mean, i-if that’s why you were asking,” he muttered.

“That was what I was asking,” Percival confirmed. He reached out to gently pat Newt on the shoulder, wondering just how young his companion actually was. “And good. I can only build a shelter if I have a knife, you see. A terrible handicap, I know, but the only way I was taught.”

“Oh.” Newt’s cheeks gained a dusky hue, and he gave Percival a timid smile, flicking tiny glances at him before his gaze darted away again. “Well, I can show you, if you’d like…?”

Percival just gestured for him to go ahead, and he followed more slowly as Newt scurried through the trees, searching for branches that were narrow but strong. Once he’d found enough to satisfy, Newt began weaving them together, slowly enough that Percival could follow the actions of his hands, but quickly enough that it wouldn’t take several hours before they could use the shelter.

“I’m very impressed,” said Percival, once they were sitting underneath the cover, listening to the rain dripping onto it. “Where did you learn how to do that?”

“The gamekeeper taught my brother and I when we were young,” Newt informed him. “There was a thick forest where my mother kept pheasants, and we used to trail after him when he went through to check on them. On several occasions, he set up blinds to keep a watch out for poachers, and he showed us how to make them.” Newt dropped his gaze to his hands, where he was twisting his fingers together. “I shall have to wire my brother and explain I’ve been delayed,” he murmured. “I was supposed to catch a ship tonight.”

“Just passing through New York, then?” Percival asked, finding himself oddly disappointed at this. _He didn’t even _know_ this man, for goodness’ sake!_ he scolded himself.

“Hmm, yes,” replied Newt, casting a sideways glance at Percival that he missed. “I’m writing a book, you see, about wild creatures, and I’m due back in London to meet with my publisher about it. And you? Were you planning to pass through New York?”

Percival shook his head – both in response to the question and to snap himself out of his unruly thoughts. “No, that was actually my destination,” he said. “I’m taking up a post with the New York Police Department as a Municipal captain.”

Newt looked briefly surprised. “I wasn’t aware New York had a police department,” he said. “I don’t recall that when I came through when I first arrived in America.”

“Unless you came through just a few weeks ago, it didn’t have one,” Percival agreed. “It’s fairly new. The legislation passed last year, but they’ve only now created the force itself. I was a sergeant back at home; when I heard they were looking for experienced men as ranked officers, I thought it could be a good career move.”

“I see,” Newt murmured. “Well, in that case, I wish you luck, and lots of criminals!”

Percival snorted.

* * *

By the time the rain finally began to stop, it had become quite dark and the two men had resigned themselves to a cold night outside. They had gradually inched closer to each other, until they were close enough to share their body heat. Despite his hunger, Percival had fallen into a light doze, and Newt had already fallen asleep, his head lolling onto Percival’s shoulder.

They had spent the last several hours talking about whatever subject they happened to think of, and Percival had found himself becoming ever more reluctantly intrigued by Newt. It was a terrible idea, especially with him being a man of the law, but he wanted to convince Newt to stay in New York. Obviously, the other man would have to wait until another boat sailed to England, but Percival wanted him to remain longer than that.

_Forever_.

He’d been trying to argue himself out of it, but he was so tired that his thoughts were just slipping away from him now. Yawning, he tucked his head against Newt’s. Perhaps he should just give up the attempt now and start afresh tomorrow.

After all, it was a long trek to reach New York.


	4. 6 - Dragged Away│Road-trip│Husky

“You know, when you suggested we get away together, I rather thought that we’d . . . you know, _be together_.” Percival Graves frowned into the handheld mirror he was currently holding up in front of his face. Instead of his reflection, it was showing what looked like the inside lining of something.

“And I’m sorry about this, I really am,” came the muffled voice of Newt Scamander from somewhere above the mirror. “But when I heard that Frank was in the area, I couldn’t just pass through without at least saying hello, and he doesn’t really do _well_ with people, you know, not after those smugglers—”

“Newt,” Percival interrupted, “I’m not upset about you saying hello to Frank. What I _am_ upset about is that you _insisted_ that I should take a vacation with you. In fact, you literally dragged me out of the MACUSA building to come on this ‘road trip’ of yours, and yet I am sat here in our hotel room, while you are out in the wilds of Arizona—”

“It’s a desert, for goodness sake!” Newt muttered.

“—_In the wilds of Arizona_,” Percival repeated, through gritted teeth, “making contact with a thunderbird.”

“I’m _sorry_, I really am,” Newt repeated. “But—” An enormous crash of thunder interrupted him. “Oh, Frank’s here! I’ve got to go!” said Newt, hurriedly, and the mirror abruptly went back to reflecting Percival’s image.

Percival sighed heavily and tossed the mirror onto the bed beside him, before flopping back onto the bed as well. It was overly dramatic of him, but he felt he had the right to be when he’d been dragged all the way across the country and promised a vacation, only to be deserted the instant news of a creature reached them.

After the debacle of Grindelwald’s impersonation, most of the first year had been spent double-checking everything the man had had his nasty fingers in and, especially in Percival’s case once he’d been rescued, healing. Percival hadn’t really paid much attention to the vague figure that seemed to hover on the edges of things, not at first.

But then Seraphina had mentioned how instrumental Scamander had been in revealing Grindelwald, and Goldstein the elder had been showing the man around the Department, and – somehow – Percival had found himself spending ever increasing amounts of time with him.

Eighteen months after Grindelwald had been captured, Percival and Newt had gone on their first date. Unfortunately, the master criminal’s escape barely six months later had left both the Magical Law Enforcement, and MACUSA as a whole, in a complete mess. Abernathy’s betrayal had been a terrible blow, and the workload had increased until Percival had almost forgotten he _had_ a home outside of MACUSA.

After two weeks of not seeing each other, Newt had finally put his foot down and demanded that Percival take a vacation, pointing out that he was at risk of his injuries relapsing again if he wasn’t careful. When Percival had tried to put him off, Newt had taken him firmly by the arm and literally dragged him out of the building, Apparating them both away as soon as they were outside. Percival considered himself lucky that Newt hadn’t Splinched them both.

And now, irony of ironies, Percival was stuck here alone while Newt had gone haring off in his usual creature-orientated manner.

Groaning, he forced himself upright again and considered his options. He _could_ just create a portkey to get himself home again, but now that he was actually _on_ this vacation, he had to admit that he sorely needed it. Also, it would be a rather petty act, to just up and leave Newt like that.

The sudden sound of shouting from outside his window caught his attention, and he rose to his feet to investigate. What looked like a group of young boys were gathered around something on the ground, and a fierce argument over it seemed to be brewing. In the ensuing scuffle, the item in question was unwittingly trampled over, and a sharp, high-pitched yelp rose into the air.

Percival frowned, as the boys immediately scattered in alarm and the yelps continued. Creatures were more Newt’s remit than his, but even he wasn’t heartless enough to leave an animal that clearly needed help.

With a quick check to ensure that he had his wand on him – and to give any local resident a chance to come to its aid – Percival Apparated from his room to the street below with a quiet _pop_.

* * *

A muted _crack_ heralded a torrent of words. “I’m _so_ sorry, I promise, no more side-trips! I won’t be going off again, I will remain right with you, we can have the holiday we sorely need, I swear to _Merlin_, no more creatures, I—I—I—Percival, what…?” The words tripped over themselves and stumbled to a halt.

Rather in the same fashion that Newt did, standing in the middle of their hotel room, his mouth falling open in astonishment. Percival really couldn’t blame him. He smiled sheepishly at Newt and remained sitting on the bed, where the husky puppy that he had rescued earlier was curled up asleep on his lap.

“I guess I can’t complain about you and your creatures anymore,” he said.

Newt took a cautious step forward, as if expecting his surroundings to disappear at any moment. “No, you really can’t,” he agreed. “At least, not while we’re on holiday.” He bent down to study the sleeping animal. “He’s not really suited for a desert environment,” he observed.

Percival nodded, resignedly. “I know,” he said. “My family home is in upstate New York. I was planning on taking him there.”

Newt smiled at him. “Muggle creatures don’t really do well with magical travel,” he informed Percival. “So we’ll have to take the long way home. Guess we really will be going on a road-trip now!” He beamed. “Think of the creatures we could look for as we go!”

Percival groaned. 


	5. 7 - Isolation│Second Kiss│Enchantment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A darker story this time. TW - Newt is put under an Imperius-like enchantment, with the order of getting close enough to Percival to give him a paralytic (passed on from villain to Newt, and Newt to Percival, through a kiss) in order to kill him. 
> 
> No character death, not even character injury, everyone is saved and happy, and fluff ensues!

It felt vaguely like Theseus had once described being under the Imperius Curse as. Not quite floating in warmth, but as though his eyes were a screen and he was watching events play out on the other side.

He appeared to be making his way up the stairs of . . . somewhere. He should know where he was, shouldn’t he? Otherwise, how would he have gotten here? If he really concentrated, the faint flicker of a street view passed through his mind. He was aiming for a tall building, but . . . not quite for the front revolving door? He appeared to be aiming a little to the side of it, to where a man in a dark blue livery stood beside a normal-looking door…

A stab of pain abruptly went through his head, and he tried to lift his arm to rub at his temple, only to feel a spike of alarm when his body didn’t obey his command. Instead, it continued to climb the stairs of the building, looking neither left nor right, only straight ahead.

_What…? Why can’t I…?_

Another vague image formed – something in an alley at the corner of the building had distracted him, and he’d altered his course to reach that instead of the door. To his great delight, he’d been met by . . . _somebody_. Why couldn’t he remember who it had been?

It _felt_ like he was screwing up his face in an effort to force the memory out, but from the brief glimpses he got from passing mirrored surfaces – and from the lack of reaction from people passing him – his expression hadn’t changed.

He strained harder, determined to reach this memory now. He’d greeted the person by shaking their— no. He’d greeted them with a _kiss_! He’d been . . . surprised, but happy to see them, and had reached out to kiss them. And then . . .

And then his memory turned to fog.

_“Well, now, this _is_ a surprise!”_ a voice had possibly said. Had he dreamt that? _“I was expecting one of those floozies, but this is much better!”_

Without being aware of it, his body had apparently reached whatever landing he was aiming for, and had turned away from the stairs, pushing through a set of double doors and into an area that was a flurry of activity. Paper mice and airplanes were everywhere in the room, swooping and scurrying around the occupants. People called out, and his arm raised itself to wave in response to a couple of them, but the rest of him continued on towards another door on the other side of the room.

Abruptly, he knew he didn’t want to enter that second room. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew that something terrible would happen if he did. He strained, putting all the effort he could into making his body do something else, _anything_ else, than heading steadily for that door.

_“Here.”_ Something had been wiped over his lips, the touch almost taunting in its gentleness. _“As soon as you see him, you kiss him. This will ensnare him. Then kill him.”_

_No. No!_ He redoubled his efforts, frantic now. Why wasn’t it working?! Theseus had said that anyone with enough willpower could throw off the Imperius, and Merlin knew _he_ should have enough willpower right now! And yet it wasn’t working; he was almost at the door now, his arm rising up so he could give a brief knock before pushing it open.

_“No, STOP! Please!”_ Did he scream that then, or was he screaming it now? He couldn’t tell, but dear _God_ he needed to be able to do _something!_ It wasn’t allowed to end like this, they had barely begun, it _couldn’t_ end like this…

He wanted to turn away, to close his eyes and weep and wail, as his body entered the office and strode right up to the occupant. It reached out and gripped his shoulders, ready to pull the other person in . . .

And, very abruptly, they were somewhere else, and someone else was shouting, “Now!”, and a torrent of water gushed over them, leaving them sodden.

Newt spluttered, then froze when he realised he’d actually _done that out loud_. He tightened his hold, unwilling to hope that whatever enchantment had been on him had been removed.

“Newt? Newt, you’re okay now. You’re safe,” Percival was murmuring into his ear, pulling him closer. “It’s gone, it’s over.”

“But—” Newt shivered. He was cold, and wet, and wanted nothing more than to burrow into Percival’s chest yet how could he be sure he wouldn’t suddenly try and kill Percival?

Percival ran a hand through Newt’s hair, shaking out some of the water. Newt shivered again as it ran underneath his collar and down his back. “You’re safe,” he repeated. “We’re in New York’s branch of Gringotts, underneath the Thief’s Downfall.”

At this, Newt’s legs gave out, and he slumped against Percival, almost hysterically relieved laughter bursting from him. Percival just held him even tighter, allowing the wave of emotion to spill forth.

“How did you know?” Newt asked, finally, once he’d managed to pull himself mostly together.

Percival sighed. “Alice Seaman has been under our surveillance for a very long time,” he said. “Her grandmother lived in a very rural area that didn’t realise the Witch Trials were long over.”

Newt winced. The Salem Witch Trials of the 1600s had not been very successful when it came to disposing of actual witches – mainly because a _true_ witch was able to get herself free and vanish with no problems at all.

“She was very poor, but an exceedingly talented gardener,” Percival continued. “Which, of course, meant that she _must_ be a witch, and she was captured and killed accordingly. Her daughter, Alice’s mother, was left on her own far too young, and quite naturally developed an irrational hatred of all things magical.”

“Like the Barebone woman,” murmured Newt.

Percival sighed and let go of Newt to run a hand through his own hair. “Unfortunately, she then went and married a Squib that happened to have a Veela ancestor.”

Newt winced again, harder this time. It would have been bad enough for a magic-hating woman to produce a magical child, but Veela powers couldn’t be contained and would have appeared almost right from the child’s birth. “She was abused, wasn’t she?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes,” said Percival. “Until she was thrown out of the house when she was fourteen. She managed to raise herself the rest of the way, but that combined with her mother’s teachings has left her . . . not inclined to be agreeable towards other magic-users, shall we say? She regularly hatches plots to bring down MACUSA, somehow under the impression that that will ‘take it all away’. Her activities have been increasing again, so we were watching her. And when we realised that she’d lured _you_ into a trap—”

This time, it was Percival that shivered, and he pulled Newt closer again. “I couldn’t bear it if she’d permanently harmed you,” he whispered directly into Newt’s ear. “I don’t know what I’d have done to her if she had.”

“I was worried I was going to hurt _you_,” Newt replied, and pressed his face against Percival’s throat. “I couldn’t stop myself. I remembered her saying ‘then kill him’, but _I couldn’t stop_…”

“_Newt_!” Percival briefly pushed Newt away to look him in the eyes, then he pulled him closer again, this time bringing him into position to kiss him.

Newt gasped, and then moaned, clutching tightly to Percival’s shoulders. This was only the second time they had ever done something so direct, and it had very nearly been their last. Percival briefly pulled away again, before ducking his head down and pressing a kiss over where Newt’s pulse was beating wildly in his neck.

“You,” Percival said, eventually, without removing himself from Newt’s person, “are remaining in my sight for the next foreseeable . . . ever.”

Newt smiled, and rested a hand on Percival’s head. “I think I can live with that,” he agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice the chapter count has gone down. I did have an idea for today, but since I'm so behind already, I decided to skip it and start afresh back on track tomorrow.


	6. 9 - Shackled│Paint│Swing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Implied/referenced/off-screen character death, as it involves a hanging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *plans to get back on track* 
> 
> *immediately falls completely off track* 
> 
> So here, have three at once!

With quick, neat pen-strokes, the scene playing out was swiftly brought to life and, in just a few minutes, the completed page was being carefully put aside. A quick glance upwards to fix the new positions in his memory, and the artist bent his head again, charcoal dancing over the empty page.

By the time the court was adjourned for the day, N A Scamander had quite the pile of pictures beside him. He remained in his seat as everybody else filed out of the room, flicking through the pile of papers, checking that each image was correct, and occasionally adding in another line or hatch of shading where he’d been too rushed to bother in the moment. He could make quite a bit of money with this lot, he thought. Spread them around to various newspapers and broadsheets, and he might even be able to make his rent money.

“Mr Scamander?”

The voice made him look up. Besides Scamander himself, the man approaching him was the only person left in the court room. “Yes, that’s me,” he confirmed, automatically cataloguing the man’s features as if preparing to draw them.

“There’s been . . . a rather unusual request made for your presence,” the man said. He looked uncomfortable, although Scamander wasn’t certain why. He wasn’t _that_ unapproachable, surely?

“Oh?” Scamander shuffled his court scenes together and carefully placed them in the leather folder that he used as a portfolio. “By whom? And what for?”

The man, who now that Scamander looked closer was dressed in the livery of the court assistants, shuffled his feet, cleared his throat, and looked even more uncomfortable. “Ah, to requisition a portrait,” he said, and then cleared his throat again, several times. “And it was a . . . ah, a—” he winced “—prisoner that requested you.”

Surprised, Scamander’s hands stilled. _A prisoner?_ He wasn’t aware that prisoners were allowed to request _anything_, let alone a portrait! “And the prison warden allowed it?” he asked, wondering if this assistant would even know the answer.

“The prisoner asked for it in place of his last meal,” the clerk explained. “Shall I take you there now, sir?”

_Last meal_. The prisoner was on death row, then. And likely on the schedule to hang sooner rather than later if they had allowed Scamander to be called for now. He tilted his head as he considered the matter, squinting at the materials he had with him. Mostly charcoal pencils, a few graphite ones. He could always offer a pencil drawing, or do a drawing now and paint it in later, but he supposed the prisoner deserved to actually _see_ the portrait he’d requested.

“I have to collect my paints from home,” he said to the assistant. “I’ll come back in about an hour. Who do I ask for?”

“Warden Picquery.” The assistant looked relieved. “I’ll let them know to expect you, sir.” He turned and hurried away before Scamander could ask anything else; like which prisoner had requested him.

It actually would have taken him less than an hour to collect his things and return to the court, but whilst he was home he took the opportunity to organise the scenes he’d done in court that day, getting them ready for when he made the rounds of the local newspapers.

When he returned, he was informed that Picquery had had to leave, but Warden Abernathy was waiting for him instead. Scamander hid his distaste at the news. Abernathy was a short man with a penchant for trying to worm his way into his superior’s good graces. Scamander didn’t like the weaselly little man, and the feeling was entirely mutual.

The trip down to the cells was made in a strained silence. Scamander would have liked to ask for more information on the prisoner – and why he’d been allowed to request Scamander in the first place – but he wasn’t good at small talk at the best of times, and Abernathy had no use for him and therefore didn’t bother to waste his breath.

The prisoner was in the cell at the end of the row, closest to the thick metal door that led to the outside courtyard where the hangings took place. He was sitting on the bed, head cocked curiously as his visitors arrived. Despite the grey hair at his temples, he was still fairly young, and his eyes were still bright and curious as he studied them, rather than the dull apathy that most prisoners’ eyes had.

“You have one hour,” Abernathy said, before he turned on his heel and stalked off. Scamander watched him go, then shrugged and turned back to the prisoner.

“Guess we’ll skip the pleasantries, then,” the man said. He held up his shackled hands, the chain running down to his waist rattling as it moved. “Not that I’d be able to offer them anyway,” he added. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Scamander. I’m a fan of your work.”

Scamander blinked at the prisoner for a moment, before putting his art supplies down and beginning to set up his station. “Thank you,” he said. He wondered about the fact that Abernathy had left him outside of the cell, despite the prisoner being shackled. Was the other man really that dangerous? _What did he do to end up on death row?_ he wondered. “Do you have a preference as to how I paint you?”

The prisoner settled his hands back in his lap as he leant back against his cell wall and shook his head. “Not really,” he admitted. “I just wanted something that would carry on past me. Something to tell people who I was, and what I looked like.”

“A court drawing wouldn’t do?” Scamander asked, curiously. He hadn’t covered this man’s trial, but he was certain that _somebody_ would have; it was only the minor crimes that didn’t warrant a court artist nowadays, ones where the trial and the sentence barely lasted for longer than it took to draw a scene.

The prisoner shook his head again. “I’d rather a picture of myself being convicted in court not be my only legacy,” he said.

Scamander nodded. “Fair enough,” he acknowledged. His work station ready, he turned an intense gaze on the prisoner, studying his face briefly but thoroughly. He nodded to himself as he turned back to the blank page, doing a quick little pencil sketch in the corner to help him solidify the idea in his mind, before picking up a thicker charcoal pencil.

Once again, the pencil went dancing across the paper, lines sprouting under it like a magic trick. Once he had the basic outline of the prisoner’s head and shoulders, he began mixing the paint, being careful of the amount of water he added. This painting had to be quick; he didn’t have the hours to wait while each individual bit of the paint dried before advancing to the next layer.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he began, as he started putting paint onto paper, “what were you convicted for?”

The prisoner made some kind of small movement with his shoulders that caused his chain to rattle loudly. “Sodomy,” he said, briefly. Surprisingly enough, he didn’t sound ashamed of that fact.

“Innocent?” Scamander asked, shooting a quick glance at him.

“As a matter of fact, I _do_ practice sodomy,” replied the prisoner, and Scamander almost dropped his paint brush in surprise. The other man smirked at him. “I just wasn’t _soliciting_ for it.”

“I see.” Scamander paused for a moment, trying to collect himself. He supposed this was why Abernathy had left him outside the other man’s cell – in the belief that a man who practised sodomy was inclined to practise it with _every_ other man they came across. Personally, Scamander felt that line of thinking was complete rubbish; it was like saying that a man who slept with women was going to attack every woman he saw. “You seem to have gotten an unusually severe sentence,” he continued after a while.

The prisoner grimaced. “Poor choice of judge and arresting officer,” he said. “Father and son, and both very fond of the only girl in the family. Whose husband has just left her. For another man.”

Scamander winced. “Ah,” he said. “Yes. Bad luck.” Almost immediately, he felt silly for saying it, but the prisoner didn’t appear to take offense. He seemed to take pity on Scamander, however, and turned the conversation to more generic topics, such as books and restaurants.

Abernathy appeared at the end of the corridor just as Scamander was putting the finishing touches to the portrait. He was accompanied by two prison guards, plus another man that Scamander suspected was the hangman’s assistant.

“Ah,” said the prisoner, softly, once he caught sight of the approaching group. “It appears that my time is at an end.”

“Here,” was all Scamander could say, and he turned the paper around to show the prisoner.

The other man studied it carefully, before nodding in approval and smiling at Scamander. “My thanks, Mr Scamander,” he said, getting to his feet as Abernathy reached his cell door. “I’m grateful for your time and for your work. As a token of my appreciation, I have a pocket watch that I would like to gift to you.”

Scamander flushed, and shot a sideways glance at Abernathy, who scowled at them both. “Ah, well, that’s really not necessary,” he objected.

“Necessary or not, you may as well have it. I won’t have a use for it shortly,” the prisoner pointed out. He looked at the guards. “Will you pass on my watch to Mr Scamander here?” he asked, and the senior of the two nodded.

“Time to go,” said Abernathy, curtly, and opened the cell door.

Scamander pressed himself against the wall as the two guards led the prisoner out and towards the door to the courtyard. The hangman’s assistant followed behind them. Scamander didn’t bother trying to follow them, as he was certain Abernathy wouldn’t have allowed him to anyway, but neither did he move from the spot. He could hear the low roar of the crowd that had come for the entertainment. It sickened him sometimes that people could take such savage joy in the death of another human being.

There was the low murmur of voices, and then the noise of the crowd dropped, just in time for a sickening thud to sound. Scamander closed his eyes, pained but unsure why. Except for the soft creak of rope, there was complete silence for several seconds, and then the crowd roared again, louder than before.

The hanging was complete.

* * *

The painting of the unknown man – Scamander never had learnt his name – hung in whatever dwelling Scamander claimed as home for several decades. He kept it in his private office, as explanations as to who the man was, and why he had the portrait, would have been too complicated. Scamander wasn’t even certain why he kept it himself, rather than trying to find any family that might want it.

But it comforted him, the thought that this man was remembered by _somebody_. The thought that, at some distance point in the future, somebody else would find this portrait and would know that, at some point, this man had existed.

It was, after all, exactly what the man had asked for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I played fast and loose with the laws on this one, since death sentences for the crime of sodomy were in the late 18th century. Once it got into the 19th and up to the mid-20th centuries, the punishments changed to either jail time or a hefty fine, unless you were a slave, then you still got the death penalty. In 1962, state laws were changed so that consensual sodomy wasn't illegal, but soliciting for it was. 
> 
> As always, info gained from Wiki.


	7. 11 - Stitches│Hands│Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for innuendo?

“Ouch!”

“I told you to sit still, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t tell me you were going to _stab_ me!”

“Oh, for God’s sake! I’m putting in _stitches_; what did you think I was going to do with this needle?”

“I _thought_ you’d be more _gentle_ about it!”

“Newt, I _am_ being gentle! Now, stop complaining and sit still so I can finish this. Unless you _want_ a scar that will restrict movement in your hand?”

“No, of course I don’t want that, but couldn’t you have found something to numb the pain first?”

“You mean like the blood-stained snow that was hiding the broken bottle that caused your injury in the first place?”

“Um, no…?”

“No. Now, hold still . . .”

“_Yeowch_!”

“For someone who works with dangerous creatures, you sure are putting up a lot of fuss over a little needle—”

“Well, unless I do something drastically wrong, then I know my creatures aren’t going to hurt me—_ow!_”

“Oh, stop glaring at me. I’m done now. And, despite your ability to sit still being on the same level as a two-year-old, I don’t think it’ll scar, so you’ll still have the use of your hand.”

“That’s good to know. Some of my creatures really do need _two_ good hands to work with and . . . What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because working with your creatures is not the first thing I thought of when I think of you using your hands.”

“What? What are you…? . . . _Oh!_”

“‘Oh’, indeed.”

“Stop smirking at me. You just like seeing me blush.”

“It is a factor, I’ll admit. Now, shall we see just how much movement you’ve still got in your hand at the moment?”

“Hmm, yes, I suppose we really should…”


	8. 12 - "Don't Move"│Underwear│Dragon

It is the sound of something extremely large snuffling around their camp that wakes Percival Graves. He carefully pats the area around his bedroll, looking for his wand, silently cursing the fact that, due to the war, the only tents available were No-Maj ones, which means no bed to hang his wand holster on.

When the slight movements he feels comfortable making don’t result in his wand, he reaches out to gently shake the shoulder of his tent companion.

“Huh, wha?” The response is far too loud for Percival’s liking, and he hisses in warning. Anything further he might attempt to say, however, is cut off by the extremely large shadow that falls over their tent, along with the gust of breath that causes the tent fabric to ripple alarmingly. “Oh, _shit_!” comes the muted exclamation.

“Don’t move,” Percival breathes. “It might get bored and go away.”

“Or it might decide we’re food or prey to be roasted and _breathe fire on us_,” Theseus Scamander hisses back, his own hand now patting the area around _his_ bedroll in the search for his wand. He has the same luck Percival did; that is, none at all.

Not that a wand would do much against what appears to be a full-grown dragon. They are notoriously resistant to spells of all kinds, unless you hit them precisely in the eyes – which, what with the sharp claws, sharp fangs and fiery breath, is rather difficult to do – but it’s the principle of the matter that he feels better with a weapon in his hand.

“What the hell happened to the sentry?” Percival wonders. Several wizards had been set to keep watch, just in case part of the No-Maj armies stumbled across them, and if they had seen the dragon enter camp, surely they should have raised the alarm.

“Perhaps they got eaten,” says Theseus, glumly, and Percival wishes he was close enough to kick the other man. Theseus is a rising star in the British Auror ranks; how the hell can he be this pessimistic?

There is another huff of breath, and then the shadow of the dragon passes over their tent and disappears. Percival relaxes just a little. It’s likely the dragon is still nearby, but at least they’re not in _immediate_ danger anymore.

But just as he begins to hope that the dragon will get bored and leave the camp without any drama, someone on the other side of the camp gives a loud yell of alarm and warning, and the dragon roars in response.

Outside descends into chaos, with shouts and yells coming from all over, mixed with the flashes of spells and the roars of the dragon, interspersed with gouts of flame. Percival and Theseus scramble to escape from the bedding and find their wands, all caution forgotten and unnecessary now.

Percival finally locates his wand and snatches it up with relief, darting out of the tent entrance just in time to see the dragon launch itself into the air and fly off. He looks around at the damage as Theseus stumbles to a halt behind him.

The shocked silence of the camp is broken by a muffled snigger, which eventually gets louder, as more and more people join in. Percival is confused, as most of the mirth seems to be directed at Theseus and him.

Theseus claps a hand on his shoulder. “They’re just jealous of our fashion choices,” he says, his voice vibrating with suppressed laughter. Percival automatically glances down at himself, then does a double take.

He and Theseus are dressed only in the long johns they’d gone to bed in.

“Well,” he says, finally, dryly. “At least they scared the dragon off.”

Theseus’ response – and most of the camp’s – is to collapse in relieved, hysterical laughter. It isn’t long before Percival ruefully joins in.

At least their tales of the War won’t be boring!


	9. 15 - Scars│Kittens│Legend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mention of previous animal death due to poachers, close to the end of the story.

_The first time you go into the backyard, don’t go without me. I mean it, Newt, you _must_ take me with you the first time you enter it._

Newt Scamander had duly promised that he wouldn’t even _think_ of setting foot in the backyard of the Graves Family home without Percival himself there, but he’d been exploring the plants just underneath one of the windows at the back of the house, and he’d leant out to look one further away, and then crawled out to examine one a bit further away than that, and then, before he knew it, he was standing in the middle of the almost-forest that Percival called a backyard.

Without Percival.

_Oh, he’s going to be very unhappy with me,_ Newt thought with a wince, once he realised what had happened. _Although, I wonder why he was so insistent on being here? There’s nothing dangerous… unless there’s hidden wards?_

Newt spun on the spot, trying to determine which way led back to the manor house. There wasn’t a visible path, and Newt had been too focused on what was on the ground to notice where he was going. _Hmm, that’s an idea. Can I use what I was looking at to backtrack…?_

His reverie was interrupted by a low, rolling growl that seemed to curl around him from everywhere. Newt froze automatically, well-used to the sound of a creature angry that he’d invaded their territory. Something rustled in the foliage to his right, and Newt slid his gaze that way, careful not to move the rest of him in case he provoked an attack.

The creature was obviously camouflaged, but Newt thought he could see glimpses of a pale tawny fur. Carefully, slowly, he inched his hand up to where his wand was stored in his shirt sleeve, but this creature appeared more canny than most, as its growl became louder the further up Newt reached.

“Oh, Merlin,” he whispered to himself. This was going to be very tricky to get out of. He suspected it was a big cat of some sort, but some creatures didn’t react to the usual spells, and he wouldn’t really have the time to try more than one if it was attacking him.

He had just about decided to risk grabbing his wand and Apparating away – hopefully before whatever the creature was managed to reach him – when the growl went up a notch, and was answered by a squeak from somewhere near his feet, which was accompanied by a tug on his trouser leg.

Very slowly, Newt tipped his head downwards. Crouching beside his feet, teeth firmly fastened onto his trousers, was a small, spotted cub. It rolled its eyes upward to look at him and snarled playfully, tugging at the fabric it held.

“Oh, _bugger_,” said Newt out loud, closing his eyes in frustration. He was starting to see why Percival had insisted he not come out here alone. His odds of being able to escape unscathed had just drastically reduced, unless he was willing to risk hurting the cub, which he wasn’t.

The growling from the bushes reached a crescendo, and Newt realised that he had to act, _now_ – even if it meant gaining some kind of injury. Hopefully it wouldn’t be a bad one, or at least wouldn’t scar.

He opened his eyes and darted his hand to his wand, just as a much larger, spotted tawny beast came flying out of the foliage it’d been hidden in…

“Newt! _No!_”

…And between one blink and the next, Percival was between Newt and the creature, his arms outstretched in warning, his wand gripped firmly in one hand.

Except . . . instead of facing the creature to protect Newt, he was instead facing _Newt_, as though protecting the _creature_.

“Stop!” Percival barked, and, surprisingly, the big cat did. It slid to an ungainly halt, its back paws scrabbling to keep it from running Percival over. It sniffed at him tentatively, then made a sound that fell somewhere between a whine and a purr, butting its head at Percival.

Percival lowered his wand and reached back with his other hand to vaguely pat the creature on whatever part of it he could reach, but he was still watching Newt.

_I hope he doesn’t think _I’d_ harm a creature!_ Newt thought, indignantly, and realised that his hand was still on his wand. Sheepishly, he lowered his arm, and the big cat behind Percival relaxed slightly.

“There,” Percival said, turning his head to eye the creature. “Now we’re all friends.” He turned back to Newt, and his expression turned stormy. “I thought I told you not to come out here without me with you,” he said.

Newt winced. “You did,” he admitted. “I’m so sorry, Percival, I didn’t mean to.”

Percival eyed him for a moment, then sighed and relaxed his stance, finally tucking his wand back into its holster. “I know,” he agreed. He bent down and picked up the cub trying to kill Newt’s trouser leg, tugging gently when the cub didn’t want to let go of its ‘prize’. It mewled, disgruntled, as it was lifted too high to keep hold of the material. “You’re a rascal,” Percival told it, raising it to eye level. It swiped a paw at him, playfully.

Newt turned to face the creature behind Percival. It wasn’t one he’d ever seen before, or even heard about. It looked rather like a spotted lion, but with a slimmer build reminiscent of a cheetah. “Are you going to introduce me?” he asked.

Percival gave a snort of amusement and put the cub back on the ground. Straightening up, he rested a hand on the creature’s neck. “This is—” he said, followed by a clicking chirrup noise that caused the creature’s ears to prick up. “She’s a pard, and her family have lived at the Graves Family home for centuries.”

“A pard?” Newt frantically searched his memory for anything he might have ever learnt. He came up blank. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of them before.”

“Mm, you wouldn’t have,” said Percival. “They’re very rare now, almost extinct. As far as we know, this is the last adult in America. There’s a few still in places like Africa, but they’re swiftly disappearing. There’s just not enough pure-bloods anymore.”

Newt frowned at Percival. “Pure-blood?” he repeated. “Isn’t that a wizard term?”

Percival shrugged. “It might be, but it’s true enough of pards, too,” he said. “They don’t just breed with other pards, you see. They breed with lions, too. It’s where leopards originally came from.”

“Ah.” Newt’s eyebrows rose in realisation. “So lions were easier to find, so they kept breeding with them…?”

“And the pard numbers got less and less,” Percival finished. “Exactly.” He shifted his hand and scratched behind the female’s ear. “This one obviously found a male, but she had to travel miles to do so. We thought she’d died, or moved on, but then she came back last year with the kittens.”

Newt eyed the cub that was now gambolling around its mother’s front paws, dashing out occasionally to pounce on her tail. “Kittens, plural?” he asked, looking up at Percival again.

Percival held out his other hand to Newt, and a wash of magic went over it. When it cleared, Newt was looking at a rather nasty looking scar that covered half of Percival’s hand and stretched up past his wrist. “Poachers,” said Percival, grimly. “They didn’t know what exactly lived in the forest, but they knew there was _something_, so they set traps for it. Poor kitten fell right into it. I managed to get him loose, but it was too late. His injuries were too severe.”

Newt winced. If the trap had injured _Percival_ that badly, he didn’t want to know what it had done to a much smaller animal. “I’m sorry,” he said, to both Percival and the pard. Percival dismissed this with a wave of his hand, but the pard gazed steadily at Newt for a long moment, before finally huffing and giving him a brief headbutt that was obviously meant to be gentle and yet still almost knocked him over. Then it lowered its head and picked up the cub by the scruff of its neck. It gave one last rumble of sound in Percival’s direction, then turned and padded off back into the forest.

Percival watched it go, then turned back to Newt and forcibly turned him around via a heavy arm across his shoulders. “Next time, Newt,” he said, pointedly, “when I tell you that you have to have me with you when you go somewhere, perhaps you’ll listen to me, hmm?”

“Oh, yes, I will! I promise!” Newt agreed, nodding.

And he meant it at the time, he really did . . . but that’s another story.


End file.
